


Four Times Buffy and Angel Almost Made Love (and One They Did)

by calenlily



Series: Explorations [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Blow Jobs, Canonical Underage Relationship, Episode: s02e11 Ted, Episode: s02e13 Surprise, F/M, First Time, Hand Jobs, Heavy Petting, Loss of Virginity, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 02, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/pseuds/calenlily
Summary: Snapshots of Buffy and Angel’s relationship heating up mid season two: a collection of five firsts.
Relationships: Angel/Buffy Summers
Series: Explorations [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040958
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71
Collections: I Will Remember You





	1. December I

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, this fic is basically an exercise in “how much smut can I fit into s2 while remaining canon-compliant?” Buffy and Angel are not a relationship I can picture as having gone straight from zero to one hundred, and I desperately want to believe they had these chances.
> 
> Dedicated to my own first love, and many hours of exploration fondly remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up where the camera cuts off during the scene at Angel’s apartment in _Ted_.

“Kiss me,” Angel says with a little smirk, cutting her off when she moves from processing her feelings aloud into borderline rambling.

Buffy smiles for what feels like the first time since she came home last night to find her mother with Ted. “Finally, something I want to do.”

She lets herself slide from her perch on the arm of the chair, tumbling into his lap. His arms go around her, pulling her in, as their lips meet hungrily. One of his hands comes to rest at the base of her spine, pressing her close against him; she loves the way just one of his hands spans the entirety of her back.

His other, bandaged, hand comes up to cup the back of her head. He moves it without any sign of pain, and she knows he is almost fully recovered from his ordeal with Spike and Drusilla. (That he is still allowing her to tend to the wound is one part the awkwardness of changing bandages one-handed and the rest indulging her.) If they never have to go through another trial like that it will be too soon, but she has to admit the whole thing had unexpected benefits for their relationship. They’re more committed to each other now, and have progressed from casual dating to a new level of intimacy both physically and mentally. Since she’s been caring for him in his weakened state, they’ve grown comfortable sharing a private space, and he’s lost many of his inhibitions around her. Much of Angel’s mind is still opaque to her, and she suspects always will be, but he no longer holds himself back the way he used to. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have kissed her like this, let alone invited it so confidently.

Now she’s rambling in her own head, Buffy realizes, and she needs to stop, because far too much of her attention is being devoted to thinking rather than feeling. And that’s entirely unacceptable, considering she’s fairly certain that Angel kisses are one of the wonders of the world.

She slides one hand around the back of his neck, gripping his hair. As their tongues stroke at each other, she shifts in his lap, molding herself more closely to the contours of his body.

She breaks the kiss, gasping, and his mouth moves along her jawline and nibbles lightly at the lobe of her ear. (It’s never seemed more unfair that he doesn’t need to breathe.) Once she catches her breath, she retaliates by trailing a line of small sucking kisses up the side of his neck, grazing each patch of cool skin with her teeth as she releases it. Her actions provoke a growl that she doubts human throats are capable of; the sound sends a shudder of excitement all the way through her, straight down to her core. He sucks at her lower lip before devouring her mouth again.

The way she’s sprawled atop him, her legs are straddling one of his, and the pressure of that solid flesh at the juncture of her thighs at once soothes and stokes the ache that has started deep within her. Without thinking she grinds against it, seeking greater friction, then is suddenly embarrassed as she realizes how wanton and forward she is acting. But he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, his hand at the small of her back presses her closer, encouraging, giving her more leverage to move against him.

As their bodies grind together, she’s aware suddenly of a stirring against her, something rigid pressing into the softness of her stomach. She has a moment of shock as she processes what she’s feeling, and then a secret thrill jolts through her; the fire in the pit of her stomach flares as her heart rate spikes at the realization that he is hard all for her.

It’s not the first time she’s felt a hardness like this pressed against her. When Buffy was one of the queen bitches at Hemery, she’d delighted in her power to tease and torment, turning the guys on and then slipping out of their grasp to leave them wanting. Pike, Tyler, at least half a dozen more whose names she can hardly recall any longer.... She’s ashamed of it now, but the dirty dance she’d done to mess with Xander in September was only a glimpse of how she regularly acted before she was Called.

This is the same but different, at once scarier and more thrilling. Angel is no green high school boy, and Buffy isn’t playing now. She wouldn’t dare tease _him_ like that. She doesn’t want to anyway; she wants to give him everything.

She wraps an arm around his back, clutching him still closer. She bucks more urgently against his thigh, and moans into his mouth as he slides a hand up under her top. She feels like she’s burning up, and his cool skin is a welcome contrast against her heated flesh; she arches into the touch as he cups one breast and then the other. He pinches one stiff nipple and she whimpers and digs her fingernails into his back.

His other hand moves down to press between her legs, the heel of his hand cupping her mound while the tips of two fingers press into the entrance to the hollow inside her. His hand is on the outside of her pants, but all the same, no one’s ever touched her half so intimately before, and oh, it’s good, but the foreignness of the sensation nearly overwhelms her. Her panties are long since soaked, and she can’t help worrying whether her slickness might seep through her pants as well.

He groans and pulls away abruptly, disentangling her arms from around him. “We need to stop,” he says raggedly.

“But – what?” Buffy blinks, horribly confused and feeling rejected. “I thought – I thought you wanted....” Her gaze flicks from his face to the bulge at his waist and back.

“Yes, I want you. I want you a little too much.” Angel’s dark eyes fix on hers, and there’s no mistaking the desire nor the sincerity in their depths. “But you’re not ready.”

Now it is her turn to pull away, drawing herself up indignantly at that declaration. Who is he to make that call for her? She’d thought they were past his ridiculous notions of protecting her from himself, from them. “I’m not a child!” she exclaims.

“Believe me, Buffy, I _don’t_ think you’re a child.” A wry laugh. “You wouldn’t tempt me so if I did.”

“Then why do you think you get to decide I’m not ready?” she demands.

“Because I can tell you’re as frightened as you are aroused,” he says gently. “Buffy, your heart’s pounding like it’s about to burst out of your chest.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, chagrined, because of course he’s right.

Angel pulls her back into his arms, and rests his forehead against hers as his bandaged hand cups her cheek. “Besides, there’s no need to rush anything. I’d rather take my time exploring you.”

His voice is soft and low, and she can’t help melting at his persuasive words, the remnants of her anger draining away. “I guess I can live with that,” she allows, one corner of her mouth turning up, and lets him kiss her calm and languid again.


	2. December II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week or so post- _Ted_.

Buffy drops by Angel’s place after patrol. When she lets herself in to the basement apartment, she finds him in the middle of some kind of stretching exercises.

She smiles as she shrugs out of her peacoat; she recognizes a warm up when she sees one. “You must be feeling better.”

“Quite a bit,” he agrees. “But my strength and reflexes are taking longer than I’d like to come back.”

She makes a vague noise of acknowledgement, her attention diverted by his bare chest. “You should spar with me.” The words spill out before she’s finished forming the thought. It’s been a quiet patrol, and she’s itchy, just longing for a proper workout. Besides, what better way to help him get back into fighting form?

“I’m not sure if that’s....”

“What, don’t think you can take me?” she taunts.

Angel hesitates a minute longer, then rises to her challenge with a wolfish grin. “We’ll see about that.”

They circle warily, taking each other’s measure. She tries to get a feel for the space while she’s at it. There isn’t a lot of room to move freely – but then, there’s never really been enough room in the library either; she’s used to training in confined quarters.

She strikes out with a high kick; he ducks under it. He aims a punch at her head; she blocks. They advance and retreat by turns, close enough to evenly matched that neither is able to land a solid blow for some time. 

Buffy has never had so much fun training. Even in less than top form, Angel has tricky moves enough to keep her on her toes, and her nerves hum with the challenge of it. There’s an energy between them that’s almost electric.

She launches a spinning kick, but he catches her foot and uses her momentum against her, tripping her up. She falls, but manages to pull him to the floor with her, and the session devolves into grappling.

In the end she comes out on top, quite literally: she has him pinned flat on his back, sitting astride him with her closed fist positioned over his heart. “I win,” she declares smugly.

He growls, and surges upward abruptly, reversing their positions before she can react. And then suddenly this isn’t about sparring anymore, because his hands are sliding up under her shirt and his hips are grinding into hers and she can feel the hardness of him through their clothing. Apparently she’s not the only one who gets all hot and bothered from a good fight.

She arches her back, eagerly pressing her breasts into his seeking hands, and wraps her legs around him. He lowers his head to kiss along her collarbone, and she buries her hands in his hair.

He pushes her shirt the rest of the way up and off, and his mouth moves to her bared breasts. His lips are cool around her nipple, but the touch sends a tendril of fire racing through her body. Her breath catches in her throat and her fingers tighten in his hair, trying to hold him in place.

He presses a hand to the juncture of her thighs, touching her through the thin barrier of her leggings and panties like he’s done once before (like she’s been wishing he would do again ever since). She leans into the contact. It does a little to sate the need that burns within her, but mostly just makes her hungrier.

She _aches_ , inside. Her muscles clench around the emptiness at her core, rhythmic and involuntary and so intense it almost feels like she has a second heartbeat between her legs.

She can feel the rigid length of his cock jutting against her stomach. Greatly daring, she reaches down to palm him through his sweatpants. She closes her fingers slowly, curiously feeling out the shape of him. When she gives a slight squeeze he groans and arches into her hand, so she figures she’s doing something right. The ache inside her burns brighter.

“Angel,” she whines, and it comes out as a plea. She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, only that she _wants_.

In answer, his hand moves inside her pants to slide over her skin. Cool fingertips stroke over her entrance, parting her slick folds, and then his index finger slips inside. Her body welcomes the invasion, muscular walls eagerly sucking him in.

Buffy doesn’t know how many nights she’s touched herself in the privacy of her lonely bed, thrust her hand between her legs while her head filled with fantasies and tried to find satisfaction. It’s never quite enough; she can never quite reach the way she wants to. But his fingers are longer and thicker, offering a gratifying sense of fullness that’s been eluding her. She lifts her hips, wordlessly begging for more.

His finger slides deeper into her, and his thumb does _something_ to the sensitive bud above, and she gasps and arches up so violently that her head and shoulders impact with force when she comes back down. “Oof,” she grunts. “Floor hard.”

She can just see the shame stealing into his eyes, see him starting to pull away. “Buffy, I –”

“Don’t stop,” she pleads. Her fingers close around his wrist, pressing his hand to her flesh. If he even thinks about stopping she’s going to die.

Angel pries her fingers loose with a soft chuckle. “Just for a minute, sweetheart. Let me get us off the floor.” He slides one arm under her knees and the other around her back, gathers her up against his chest. Her heart skips a beat when she realizes he’s carrying her to his bed.

He lays her down on her back and kneels beside her. Kisses her once, and then his hand is sliding under her waistband again.

A second finger joins the first this time, and that’s even better. Her hips buck involuntarily and her breath comes in ragged pants as he pumps into her, slowly at first and then harder and faster as she makes her impatience known. His fingers curl inside her, pressing against some spot that ratchets the tension building within her up another notch. She slams her hips upwards, trying to force his fingers deeper, and grabs at his shoulders for leverage.

Then his thumb brushes her skin just above her entrance, sliding upward to tease at her clit again. The light touch sets sparks racing in all directions, and it’s almost more than she can bear. She whimpers and squirms, but he won’t let her move away, just keeps stroking her until the sparks intensify into lightning, white-hot and all-consuming, leaving her gasping and shuddering beneath him. _Oh god!_

He slides his fingers from her core, and they come away slick. There’s something unspeakably erotic about his look of intense satisfaction as he draws them to his lips and licks them clean. His gaze locks on hers, his eyes molten and dark.

“Whoa...,” Buffy murmurs breathlessly, a little dazed, as he pulls her trembling body atop him. “I’ve never.... God, I’ve never felt anything like that before.” She mumbles the confession against his chest.

As soon as the words are out, she wishes she could take them back, afraid Angel will think her silly for her naïvety. No doubt he’s used to women who know what they’re doing, women so much worldlier and more mature than she is.

His arm tightens around her, and his other hand twists in her hair, tilting her head up towards him. She has only a moment to take in the hot emotion sparking in his eyes before his mouth descends on hers. He captures her lips in a claiming kiss, hungry and possessive, and puts her fears to flight.


	3. January I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year’s Eve night.

She hangs up her jacket and purse when they get to his apartment, then stops halfway across the room to turn back and rummage in her bag. “Oh! I have something for you.” It’s into the early hours of the new year, but she spent a week with her dad in LA for the holidays, so she hasn’t gotten to see Angel since before Christmas.

“So do I.”

He pulls a narrow package from a desk drawer and hands it to her before sitting down in his armchair with her present. She perches on the ottoman to be close to him. (She has got to harass him about getting a couch or something; his place suffers a serious lack of seating.)

Curiously she inspects the package in her hands. It’s lightweight, about the size and shape of a box of pencils, and neatly wrapped in heavy brown paper bound with white cord. Old-fashioned and elegant in its simplicity, she thinks; how fitting. The bright paper and cheerful bow of her own wrapping job seem gaudy by comparison.

“You go first,” she says, because as intrigued as she is to find out what’s inside, she’d agonized for weeks over his present and she’s desperate to know if she’d chosen well. Guys are always harder to shop for, and a boyfriend who’s been around over two centuries and has way more sophisticated taste than her is a whole new level of challenge.

Angel peels back the paper to uncover a blank journal, heavy cream pages bound in soft brown leather. The cover is embossed with a stylized dragon within a border of knotwork. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but a slight smile curves his lips and there’s a look of surprise and pleasure in his eyes as he runs a finger over the raised design.

“The style kinda reminded me of your tattoo,” she admits shyly.

“It’s lovely.” His voice is warm, and colored with some emotion she can’t quite place. “Your turn,” he prompts.

She unties the string, and finds the paper deftly wrapped so as not to require any tape. Inside are five sets of lacquered wood hair sticks with elegant floral designs painted on the ends. She slides one from its case and twirls it between her fingers. Testing the tip against the pad of her finger confirms her suspicion that it’s sharper than the average hair ornament.

Buffy grins. “Pretty _and_ practical. You give the best presents!” She launches herself into his lap and kisses him thoroughly.

His arms wrap around her, crushing her close, and she writhes in his embrace and lets her hands roam over him. As the kiss intensifies, she feels him lift her up and carry her across the room.

It’s becoming a regular thing, this phase of the night that finds them tangled up on his bed learning each other’s bodies. But so far the give and take has been distinctly unbalanced; the last time she was over had ended up with his face between her legs, while she hasn’t yet been bold enough to touch him more than briefly.

She wants to change that. She wants to make him feel as good as he makes her feel.

“I wanna unwrap my other present now,” she declares when she comes up for air.

“Buffy, what–?” She probably shouldn’t enjoy throwing him quite so much, but she can’t help it. Confused Angel is adorable.

“You, silly,” she says brightly, twisting around so her fingers can reach the buttons of his shirt. “You got to see all of me the other day. I figure that makes it my turn.”

He hesitates only a moment before his mouth turns up in a half-smile. “Fair enough.”

She slips the shirt off his shoulders, then kisses along his collarbone and over his chest, moving slowly down his body. Traces her fingertips along the thin line of hair that runs down the center of his torso before disappearing into his slacks.

Upon reaching that point, she doesn’t hesitate to attack his belt buckle and the buttons of his fly with eager fingers. She peels back the fabric, past his hips, and does the same with the black silk boxers beneath.

Buffy cannot stop her gasp upon her first sight of his cock, and barely manages to keep from expressing aloud her first panicked thoughts. _Oh holy fuck, how is that ever supposed to fit inside me?!_ She’s felt him before, so she’d basically known he was big, but seeing is viscerally different; apparently her perception of scale had been ... somewhat off.

Hastily she averts her eyes and busies herself in pulling his pants the rest of the way off while her mind tries to process this disconcerting new information. 

When she’s finished undressing him she curls up at his side, returning to familiar territory while she tries to get her nerve back: returns to placing light kisses over the underside of his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. She can feel him quiver under her touch, a low moan rumbling through his chest, and revels in her power to affect him. A slow heat uncurls in the pit of her stomach, relaxing and exciting her all at once. She rests her head against his shoulder and lets her hands trail over his chest, gradually circling lower and lower as her curiosity overtakes her trepidation once more.

She reaches out and lightly lays a hand on his cock. It jerks in response to her tentative touch, and she draws back involuntarily, startled.

He pulls her up and kisses her softly. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says soothingly. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

She feels her face heat and knows he can hear her rabbiting heartbeat, but she shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. I just ... didn’t expect it to _move_. Really, I’m fine.” Apart from the slight issue that she’s about to die of embarrassment, at least.

“Are you sure...?”

“I want to touch you,” she insists. “You’ve made me feel ... amazing, and I, I wanna do the same for you. But ... I don’t know how.”

Angel’s hand strokes her hair, the touch a soft reassurance. “Just do what feels natural. Go ahead and explore; I promise you’re not likely to do it wrong.”

“Okay,” she says faintly. She finds some store of boldness within herself and reaches out again, running her fingertips along the length of his shaft.

Stroke. Stroke.

She watches, amazed by her own daring but fascinated all the same as the sensitive flesh swells, growing harder and longer still in response to her attention.

She curls her fingers around him; her small hand barely fits around his girth, and she feels him pulse and throb within the circle of her fingers. She wonders at the velvety texture of his skin, how he can be so soft and yet so hard at the same time. The skin is taut all down his shaft, but there’s an extra thickness just below the head that slides back when her fingers reach it, and its looseness lets her hand glide more easily along his length.

A drop of clear fluid glistens at his tip. She swipes her thumb through it experimentally, and hears his soft “ohhh” as she caresses the head of his cock. Encouraged, she repeats the motion, light and teasing, and smears the next slick droplets farther before she starts to pump him in earnest.

“Is this right?”

“Mmm. Very right,” he assures her. “Although you can squeeze a little harder.”

She tightens her hand around him. “Like this?”

“Like that. And it’s, ah, better if you can keep a steady rhythm ... yes, that’s good.”

She bites her lip in concentration as she tries to follow his guidance, growing more confident as she finds her rhythm.

His hand curls over her back and toys with the ends of her hair, and his eyes are full of dark fire and intent on her. His hips jerk upward, thrusting into her hand, and she strokes him harder.

“Buffy....” Her name is torn from his lips in a strangled moan.

She can feel the tension building in his frame, and looks up from beneath her lashes to see his eyes half-closed and his mouth open as if to cry out though he makes no sound. She can no longer feel his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek; she knows breathing is habit for him, not reflex, but it’s still a little trippy to realize she’s gotten him so lost he’s forgotten it entirely.

He groans like he’s dying and his whole body tenses and a jet of thick milky fluid spurts from the tip of his cock, spilling over her hand and onto his stomach. She is frozen for a minute, watching in awe, hardly believing that she caused this.

Her paralysis breaks only when Angel moves, gently unwrapping her fingers from around him. He picks up his discarded shirt and uses the fabric to wipe her hand off and then clean himself up.

He wraps his arms around her, holds her close and kisses her so deeply, so tenderly.

“Did I make you feel good?” Buffy asks shyly.

“Do you really have to ask?” he replies, his voice warm and amused. “ _Yes_ , sweetheart. Always.”


	4. January II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a week after the New Year.

She’s barely seen Angel since New Year’s, and that was a week ago. He’s been around – they’ve crossed paths while she’s out patrolling most nights – but after just a few minutes of chatting, a few hungry kisses, he keeps vanishing into the night again. 

Buffy hasn’t been willing to push the issue, because, well, Aunt Flo’s been visiting and she would have been embarrassed to do anything and frustrated not to if they did get more alone time. But now that the red tide has receded, she’s determined not to let him get away with the avoidy guy routine any longer.

She’s busy fighting when he catches up to her tonight. Two vamps have rushed her at once, but she’s in the zone and it’s hardly even a challenge. He must know it too, because he makes no move to approach though she can feel his eyes on her. The awareness of his regard energizes her further, and adrenaline sings in her blood as she wastes the bloodsuckers one after the other.

She turns in a shower of dust to find him leaning casually against a nearby mausoleum, watching her with this look he gets like the sight of her in battle is the hottest thing he’s ever encountered.

She greets him with a saucy smile. “See something you like?”

“Always.” Angel’s eyes rake over her appreciatively, and she congratulates herself on her forethought in dressing for success. She’s wearing a miniskirt and his leather jacket over one of her skimpier tank tops; most of the time she opts for _slightly_ more sensible attire for patrol, but practicality hadn’t been at the top of her priority list tonight.

He pulls her close as soon as she steps in reach, and she throws her arms about his neck and stretches up to kiss him eagerly.

He lifts her up and spins her around, seating her on top of a convenient headstone that puts her at more of a height with him. She slips her hands into his back pockets, holding him tightly against her as his tongue tangles with hers.

“So,” Buffy says when the kiss finally breaks, “are you gonna let me walk you home tonight?”

His hands slide inside her jacket to span her back, caressing the skin exposed by the low cut of her top. “I could probably be persuaded,” he allows teasingly.

“Hmmm... What could I possibly do to persuade you, I wonder?” Without waiting for him to respond, she ducks her head to lick up the underside of his neck and suck at his Adam’s apple, and is rewarded by his shudder. He grinds his hips against her with a groan, pressing into the space between her spread legs.

She pulls a hand free to lightly trail a finger down the edge of the vee between the corners of his collar and the top button of his shirt. “Wanna get out of here?” she invites.

“I thought you were supposed to be patrolling,” Angel reminds her.

“I _have_ been,” she protests. “It’s been dead. All quiet on the Hellmouth front, barely a handful of garden-variety fledglings. Those two when you showed up were the most excitement I’ve had all night, and they were nothing to write home about.”

One of his hands slips down to her hip. “You don’t want help hunting?”

She shakes her head. “Take me home before I die of boredom.”

“I’m sure I could keep you entertained,” he murmurs, his breath cool on the shell of her ear.

“I’m sure you could,” she agrees, stifling a whimper as his hand continues moving around and up under her skirt. “Thanks for the gallant offer, but not tonight.” Tonight, she has other things in mind.

He lifts her down from her perch and she slides to the ground, letting the length of her body rub against the bulge of his arousal on the way down.

His hands have settled on her waist to help steady her on her feet, and now they tighten briefly in warning. “Keep that up and we’ll never get out of here.”

She smiles, sweet and unrepentant. “Just a little incentive not to go all disappeary guy on me again.”

He takes her hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry for that. I promise I’m not going anywhere without you tonight.”

He offers no explanation for his actions, but it’s not like Angel being cryptic is anything new, so she lets herself be content with that promise and keeps his hand clasped in hers as they walk back to his apartment.

They talk of inconsequential things on the way over, but as soon as the door to the apartment closes behind them the heat is back on. They stumble through the small room, kissing and clutching at each other, until they reach the alcove his bed is tucked into.

He lays her back atop the sheets and slides his hands up under her tank top. Then he slips the top off, and she lets herself be distracted for a few minutes by the sensation of his mouth sucking at one breast and then the other.

But before long she wrenches free of his grasp and determinedly pins him on his back. She’s already decided that this is going to be one of her nights to explore him.

She strips him down and kneels between his legs, eyeing his cock hungrily. She’s _almost_ gotten past being intimidated by the size of him. She leans forward and gives the tip an experimental lick.

“You don’t have to,” Angel starts as he realizes what she’s intending.

“I know,” she returns, because she’s well-aware that he’d never ask it. He’s so careful not to push that it makes her a little crazy sometimes. “I want to.”

She’s been curious to try this for a while, but now that the time has come she’s freaking out more than a bit on the inside, feeling like she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing and worrying she’ll be terrible at it. For guidance she has only a few half-remembered remarks from some of her older friends at Hemery and tips from magazines like _Cosmo_ that everyone says to take with a grain of salt, and it’s hard at the best of times not to be insecure about the knowledge that he has literal centuries on her in experience. But she kinda loves the idea in theory and she’s determined not to lose her nerve now, so she tries not to let her worries show and does her best.

Step one: put the cock in her mouth. That doesn’t seem too difficult. Buffy closes her lips around his head and envelops as much of it as she can manage – which isn’t much. She’s made a few discreet attempts to practice on bananas in hopes of helping to tame her gag reflex, but she’s yet to encounter a fruit that’s near as thick as him, and finds herself struggling just to open her mouth wide enough to fit around his girth, an unexpected complication that turns out to make those preparations moot. But she refuses to let that setback phase her, and wraps her hand around the remainder of his shaft.

Whether it’s instinct or her erstwhile attempts at research paying off, things feel reasonably simple from there. She squeezes firmly with her hand, just the amount of pressure she’s learned he likes, stroking along his length while she bobs her head up and down on his head and the top of his shaft, sucking greedily and swirling her tongue around the tip to lick up the drops of salty pre-cum that seep from the slit.

Apparently she’s doing something very right, because he’s more vocal than he’s ever been before in her explorations of his body, gasping and moaning continuously. He brushes her hair back from her face with one hand and his fingers twist loosely in its strands, holding it out of the way behind her head. She glances up to find his mouth open and his eyes dark with pleasure; his expression of rapture is all the reward she could ask.

She’s got a few kinks still to work out, admittedly: her stamina is quickly flagging, her mouth is overfull of saliva and she can’t figure out how to swallow, and it’s a little tricky to restrain her gag reflex when his hips buck up unexpectedly. But on the whole it seems pretty easy, and she can’t help feeling smug when his moan soon turns to a litany of “oh God oh God oh God....”

He places a hand on her shoulder as if to push her back. “Buffy,” he groans. “Sweetheart, you have to stop or I’m going to come.”

“Mmhmm.” She hums acknowledgement around his shaft without pausing in her determined attentions and reaches up to move his restraining hand away. _Isn’t that the whole point?_

“Oh. Oh. Ohhhhhh....” His hips stutter upward one final time and he spills into her mouth with a long groan. His cum is less salty than pre-cum, kinda bitter but not really unpleasant, and she swallows it down without hesitation.

She slides up his body and immediately Angel wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. She straddles his thigh and writhes against it to relieve the suddenly insistent ache between her legs, the extent of her arousal hitting her full-force now she’s no longer concentrating all her attention on one task. She isn’t expecting him to kiss her after she’s had him in her mouth but he does anyway.

“God...,” he breathes. “You....”

Buffy giggles, processing the rather mind-blowing notion that she’s just managed to make her stoic, experienced boyfriend entirely incoherent. This might well be her new favorite thing, because she’s never felt so sexy or so powerful in her life. “Okay, I do not get why so many girls apparently think blowjobs are gross,” she confides. “Cause anything that gets that kind of reaction out of you? Is super hot in my book.”

He mutters something that she’s pretty sure isn’t English but definitely sounds like a curse, and his arms tighten around her as he kisses her again.


	5. And One They Did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of _Surprise_. (Obviously.)

Buffy is freezing. God, she’s absolutely soaked and freezing; when did the rain get so damn cold? Funny how she shrugs off any number of what most would consider debilitating injuries on a nightly basis, yet she’s incapable of handling a little chill. (What can she say, she’s a California girl through and through.)

Angel unlocks the door and ushers her into his apartment. She’s grateful for his guidance, as she’s been too preoccupied by fear and her miserable physical state to pay much attention to where she’s going. Inside, she feels marginally warmer and infinitely safer, but she’s still shivering uncontrollably.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he notes.

“Cold,” she mumbles, stating the obvious. _Nice, Buffy. Real intelligent response there._

“Let me get you something.” Thankfully, Angel doesn’t seem to have noticed her stunning lack of eloquence, already busy searching through his dresser. He hands her a bundle of dry clothes and steers her towards the bed. “Put these on. Get under the covers, just to warm up.”

She clutches the clothes to her as she sits down on the edge of his bed, and hesitates as she feels his eyes still on her. He turns away with a muttered “sorry” at her expectant look.

She wonders why she’s suddenly so concerned for her modesty. He’s seen her in less. Just yesterday she was telling Willow how she thinks they’re going to seize the day soon, and now she’s gone shy about just changing in front of him? But everything about this night feels strange, off-balance somehow.

She reaches up to pull off her sodden overshirt, but stops abruptly when the motion provokes a small starburst of pain in her shoulder, startling a wince and a sharp inhalation from her.

“What?” he snaps, uncharacteristically harsh. Under any other circumstances she’d be amused by his overprotective concern, but the close calls they’ve had tonight have her on edge too, and she knows how hard it is not to jump at every shadow.

“Oh, um.... It’s okay,” she hastens to reassure him. “I just have a cut or something.” She can tell it’s nothing serious. Her reaction had been as much a product of surprise as hurt; she hadn’t even realized she was injured until then.

“Can I...?” Angel begins, then cuts off to instead demand, “Let me see,” apparently unwilling to take her word for it.

“Okay,” Buffy whispers. She can’t really fault him for it. If their positions were reversed, she doubts she’d be comfortable doing otherwise.

She clutches her discarded shirt to her chest, feeling uncertain what to do with her arms. The bed shifts under his weight as he sits down beside her.

Cool fingers slide over her back, gently touching on the stinging cut over her shoulder blade. “It’s already closed,” he assures her. “You’ll be fine.”

His hand lingers on her skin, and she wonders whether he needs to touch her as desperately as she does him.

When his fingers start to pull back, she leans into him, prolonging the contact, her head falling back on his shoulder. Maybe she’s being needy, but the physicality of being with him, here and now, suddenly feels all-important. His arms wrap around her, anchoring her. “You almost went away today,” she murmurs.

“We both did,” he replies gravely, and holds her tighter.

“Angel, I feel like I lost you...,” she confesses, fighting back tears. “You’re right, though. We can’t be sure of anything.”

“Shhhhh,” he soothes, quieting her, then begins brokenly, “I–”

She turns in his embrace, because there’s something in his tone that says this is important, and she needs to see his face. “You what?” she prompts.

He seems to struggle for a moment, searching for words or sorting out emotions. Finally he speaks again, soft and sincere. “I love you. I try not to, but I can’t stop.”

The way he treats her, she thinks she’s always known it, somewhere deep down. (All the same, she can’t help worrying sometimes that she’s being a silly little schoolgirl, falling so hard for him.) But Angel isn’t usually forthcoming with emotions, or words at all; for him to come out and say it directly is something else.

“Me, me too. I can’t either,” Buffy confesses in turn, because it’s a night for truths, for hearts and souls laid bare.

She scoots closer to him. When they kiss, it’s tender, but just below the surface is an intensity that could easily spiral out of control.

Angel stops – starts to pull back, like he has so many times before. “Buffy, maybe we shouldn’t....”

They’re standing on a threshold. She thinks he can feel it too; it’s why every action, every touch seems suddenly weighted with significance.

She presses a finger to his lips to silence him. She’s tired of holding back. She wants to go tumbling over the precipice, and see where the unknown leads, before there are no more chances. (The fall cannot be too far, with him to catch her.)

“Don’t,” she says. “Just kiss me.”

She leans into him in the most intense kiss yet. Her fingers splay over his face, insensibly trying to bring him closer, closer. His hand cups her cheek as his mouth devours hers, and already she is lost in the sensations.

The next thing she knows, they’re falling back onto the bed. Impatient to maximize their contact, she stretches out on top of him. She moans into his mouth as his hands slide over her back, pressing her body to his with the same eager intensity.

She straightens up, sitting astride him and grinding her hips over his as she peels her camisole off. Exposing her damp skin to the air sends a chill through her.

Seeing her shiver, Angel breaks away to pull back the blankets and draw them up over her, cocooning her in the warmth of the heavy comforter. She wriggles out of her leggings beneath the covers and tosses them away while she waits for him to come back to her side.

When he slides between the sheets beside her, she rolls on top of him again. Her hands find the hem of his shirt and push it up, baring the expanse of his torso to her touch. Her lips trace a path up his chest and back down.

Returning to her starting point, she reaches for his fly, feeling the hard length of him straining against the fabric.

“Buffy, maybe we shouldn’t,” he says again.

“No, I really think we should.” She’s still a little bit scared, and maybe this isn’t the perfect moment. But she almost lost him tonight. For weeks he’s urged her not to rush, and she’s let herself be persuaded. She’d let herself believe they had all the time in the world, but that’s never been the truth. With the lives they lead, they don’t have the luxury of waiting for the perfect moment.

She isn’t letting another chance go by.

He kisses her, a wordless assent, and when her fingers draw down his zipper he raises his hips to help her push his pants off.

He flips her onto her back, then, and takes his time worshipping her. His eyes and his hands and his lips on her body set her on fire, and she wonders how it is that every time they’re together she could swear she’s never been so aroused in her life. His mouth lingers at her breasts until she rolls her hips in restless circles against the bed, and then his hand slips between her thighs to stroke her slowly, skilled fingers coaxing her to the edge and beyond.

When she is splayed out panting beneath him, he lowers himself carefully over her. Her already pounding heartbeat kicks up another notch as she feels his shaft brush against the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs and nudge her lower lips.

Point of no return.

“Please,” she breathes as he holds himself poised above her.

“Are you sure?”

“I swear to God, Angel, if you ask me one more time...,” she huffs, tired of his hesitations. They nearly died tonight and they could die tomorrow and she doesn’t want to go one more moment without knowing all of him. “ _Yes_.”

He pushes into her, and for a minute she can’t breathe. She knows it usually hurts the first time, but Buffy is well-acquainted with pain, and this isn’t exactly painful so much as simply overwhelming: a sensation of intense pressure, of being stretched so tightly it almost burns. He starts to pull back, and the added friction is a whole new level of Too Much.

He freezes instantly when he hears her whimper. “I’m sorry, my love,” he murmurs, one hand cupping her cheek.

“I’m okay,” she insists, wishing she could wipe the guilt from his eyes. “I just ... need a minute.”

“Of course,” he says. His hands grasp her waist, holding her steady as he rolls her on top of him. “Here, you’re in control now. You don’t need to move until you’re ready.”

Gradually her body relaxes, adjusting to the size of him, and she shifts her hips experimentally. The friction doesn’t cause discomfort anymore, but she can’t quite figure out how to move to make it feel _good_ either.

She lets out a soft noise of frustration. “Can... can we go back to the other way? I’m not sure I’m ready to be in control.”

“Anything you want.”

His body blankets hers again. He pulls back until she can barely feel the tip of him and then presses back in just as slowly, and oh yes, that’s what she was looking for. “Yesss.... Better. _Good_.”

His hands and his lips slide over her skin as he pumps into her, and the reverent sensuality of the sensation leaves her gasping and trembling. She does her best to imitate the touch that affects her so, letting her own hands roam up his sides and down his back while her mouth presses kisses to every inch of skin she can reach.

He props himself on his elbows to look into her face. “God, Buffy, you feel...,” he moans, and breaks off raggedly, apparently at a loss for words.

She knows the feeling. His eyes are fixed on hers, so dark, so full of love and tenderness she could drown in their depths. Overwhelmed with emotion and the slow-burning pleasure of his body moving against hers, she breathes his name and it comes out half a sob, half a prayer.

Angel groans. He abandons his achingly slow rhythm to thrust into her more urgently now. She buries her face in his shoulder and her hands in his hair, clinging desperately to him as her need and her pleasure build to a fever pitch. She’s so high up already that it takes little more than a brush of his finger over her clit to send her crashing into orgasm.

His hands grab onto her hips and he calls her name like it’s the name of God and then with a last desperate jerk of his hips he is shuddering against her and she thinks she can feel a rush of cool wetness spilling into her.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her hair as he rolls onto his side.

She curls against him, settling into a new position, and feels his hand come up to stroke her hair. “I love you,” she sighs, languid and content.

She falls asleep wrapped in his arms, and the horror and violence that started the night couldn’t be further from her mind.


End file.
